Water hits the windscreen.
With an impact so shuddering Driver wakes up with a start.
Balloon Girl is gone, water streams down the windscreen hard, the glass has turned opaque.
‘Water cannons, sir,’ says Driver.
That’s what the police are using.
Tata trucks, each fitted with a water tank and motors, enter the highway from the other side, the one that’s relatively free, into which the VIP car was allowed to turn. Police have set up fresh barricades, Driver rolls the window down, hears the police on the megaphone telling the crowd to retreat, go home, the local MP has arrived.
~
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hear you,’ says the MP, standing on the divider, water cannons behind him.
‘I listen to you, I understand what you are going through. From here, I am going directly to the Chief Minister’s office and I promise you I will not leave that office until I have come up with a solution, until you have power and water back.
‘The problem is there are people with unauthorised connections and they are drawing more power than they should and we have to speak to them. My request to all of you, with folded hands, is please call off this protest here, the highway is blocked, it has inconvenienced thousands of people.’
The crowd is angry, these words hardly have any effect, the MP hurriedly climbs down and is escorted off the highway into his car.
No one has heard him and even if they have, they haven’t listened.
Police switch the cannons on, jets of water arc across eight lanes of traffic to slam into the protesters. Someone in the truck, in a yellow helmet, is navigating the jet, spraying the stranded cars as well.
One protester, a boy, barely in his teens, takes off his shirt. Twirling it around his head, he runs towards the cannons when a jet catches him full in the face and neck, throws him off his feet into a giant puddle that’s spreading across the lanes on the highway. He hears the crunch of the boy hitting the road. Someone lends him a hand, helps him to get up, the boy is hurt, pain twists his face. Clear water from the cannons turns black and green with dirt on the highway, trash thrown from cars. Drops of water slide down his window, too, he catches them in his fingers, cool to the touch.
Like Balloon Girl’s face in the clouds.
CHILD
Traffic Signal
‘Let’s go,’ says Bhow, ‘there’s no time to waste.’
Bhow is a dog of few words.
She is the only eyewitness to Orphan’s arrival at Little House and it’s only appropriate that she is the only one who watches Orphan crawl out through the hole in the wall created by the storm.
This is their first meeting so she can tell him about how exciting the world is outside, how the days and nights stretch from the wretched doorstep of Little House to that glorious place where sky meets the city. She can tell him about that scorching night when she sees a woman leave him. She can tell him about the blood-red towel in which he was wrapped, how Mrs Chopra picked him up in the morning, but Bhow is a practical dog, more prose than verse, so she skips all this drama and the first thing she does is lick Orphan clean.
Starting from the toes of his bare feet, moving up his ankles, his small knees, up his chest, his neck and his face, down his arms, hands, in between his fingers, his little nails.
Her tongue tickles; Orphan laughs, sort of.
‘Not too loud,’ says Bhow, ‘careful, we don’t want anyone to hear us. We have to remove every Little House smell from you because they will get sniffer dogs, give them your pillow, your clothes, ask them to smell their way to you. And then they will bring you back here.’
Orphan listens.
‘Done,’ says Bhow. ‘Get on top of me, no one’s looking, it’s still dark, let’s get out of here before the sun comes out.’
And they set off, dog and child, into the city.
~
The storm has cooled the night.
Orphan, drenched with Bhow’s licking, shivers in a slight chill. Bhow has neither leash nor collar and Orphan is too small to be able to control her movements. He cannot hold onto her tight, curl his legs around her, so Bhow walks slowly, the infant’s hands on the thick, matted fur around her neck. There’s little traffic at so early an hour except for call-centre Toyotas that dart from light to light, discoloured and broken trucks carrying stone chips and iron rods, gleaming ones carrying Maersk shipping containers geometrically arranged, bound for shores across the ocean – each passing vehicle sets off a wind that threatens to knock Orphan off Bhow’s back.
So she keeps her ears open to catch the faintest rumble of an oncoming vehicle long before the child can hear or see, pulls over to the left, waits for it to pass and then begins walking again.
Clearly, Bhow has taken charge with a plan that seems meticulously crafted well in advance, step by careful step. Every half-hour, Bhow stops at a secluded spot, maybe a patch of pavement against the shuttered door of a shop, or in the corner of a blind alley off the road at the end of a lane, where she sits down, curls herself up around Orphan to help him sleep.
As day breaks, they are off Ring Road, walking the leafy streets of neighbourhoods in the southern part of the city, quiet before the morning rush-hour. The occasional schoolbus passes them by, they watch guards waiting for the shift to change at the iron gates of houses hidden behind walls. They pass drivers washing cars, maids headed to work. Some strays bark at Bhow, one even comes running right up to her but she doesn’t react.
‘Let’s keep walking,’ she says, ‘keep looking straight. Just a few hours more and then we will be home.’
~
Home for Bhow is off the national highway next to a traffic signal beyond the toll gate where the thirty-two lanes veer off into a network of streets that twist and loop like petals of a giant flower and make up New City. One goes towards The Mall, another to The Leela Hotel, barely one mile from Apartment Complex.
MEANWHILE
An Evening in the Life of Kalyani’s Sister
It is past 11 p.m., Ma is cooking dinner, Baba’s bath is over, he is drying himself, the crowd at the community tap cleared only at 10 p.m. Pinki has finished dusting the floor, Bhai’s lying down. Kalyani has quit her job at Little House, she is washing the dishes, getting the house ready for dinner.
‘What happened to all of you today?’ asks Baba, water dripping down his back.
Each one gets to tell a story from the day that’s just ended.
Tonight, it’s Pinki’s turn.
She will tell, they will listen, sitting on the floor in a circle of sorts.
~
‘Around 5.30 p.m., Dada Babu comes back from work, Didi says it’s very hot today so we won’t have dinner at home, let’s all go eat out at The Mall. Wash your hands and face with soap, she tells me, scrub hard, we are going to a restaurant. She sprays some of her perfume on me. Also on Krish, the baby. I clean up Krish, he is in no mood to go, he keeps crying, rubbing his eyes. Dada Babu says he must be tired, let’s stay at home, we can order in some food, but Didi says, no, I am tired of staying at home. And if Krish is tired, he can always sleep in the stroller.
‘When we step out, it is already six, we have to return home by eight, Didi tells me. On our way to The Mall, we walk under the Metro tracks, Krish points to watch the big yellow digger that they are using to lay the road. He has got a small one at home exactly like that. I stop so that Krish can watch but Didi says, let’s keep walking, we want to finish early when the restaurant is empty, let’s be the first ones in and out.
‘She is right, there’s no one in the restaurant except us, it’s cold and very dark inside although there are lights along the wall, lights on the ceiling, some even on the floor. A man comes up to us, he is wearing a black coat, he takes us to a big sofa and a table. We all sit there. Krish has fallen quiet.
‘The man brings two books, gives one to Didi, one to Dada Babu. That’s the menu, Didi says, it has everything the restaurant can serve this evening. What do
you want to eat, she asks me, and I don’t know what to say so I tell her, Didi, I will eat whatever you order.
‘Across from our table is a big glass tank along the entire wall. It is full of water and it has fishes. Red, yellow, blue, black, white. With small trees, rocks and coloured stones, like marbles.
‘Didi tells me she needs to talk to Dada Babu for a while so can I please take Krish right up to the tank so that he can watch the fishes? There is a toy frog sitting at the bottom of the tank blowing bubbles. There is a little turtle, too. In fifteen minutes, Krish falls asleep, Didi tells me to take off his shoes.
‘Food has come to the table, I can see that Didi and Dada Babu are talking but I can’t hear what they are saying. I stand there, watching the fishes.
‘Pinki, you leave the stroller here, we will take an hour, Didi says, Krish has fallen asleep. Why don’t you wait outside? If he wakes up I will call you, we will get your food packed.
‘The man who had taken us inside shows me the way out, tells me where to sit a few steps away from the restaurant’s entrance, on a bench. You sit here, he says, if they need you, I will come and get you, don’t go anywhere.
‘OK, I say.
‘This bench is next to the playpen where Krish and I go every weekend. They have slides, cars, bridges. There is a tree house as well, with a toy kitchen. Made of green plastic. They charge Rs 150 for one hour, they give a ticket we need to stick on Krish’s back. His favourite is the red car which you move with your feet. I like the blue slide but I haven’t tried it, these things are only for the children, not for us.
‘This evening, there are only two or three children in the playpen. I know the girl who works there, she’s also from West Bengal, her name is Durga, she’s at least four years, five years older than I am. When Durga sees me, she tells me, why are you sitting there on the bench, come over to the playpen, no one’s looking, you can try out the blue slide and we can talk. She is talking aloud.
‘I say, no, I cannot go, what if Didi calls me, the waiter has said that he will come here to look for me.
‘Come over for just five to ten minutes, Durga says, we can see the waiter if he comes out. I am frightened because when Didi gets angry, she gets very angry, but then Durga is right, there is no crowd in the playpen, Krish is deep in sleep, I don’t think he will wake up so soon, this is also his sleep time.
‘So I tell Durga, OK, but only for five minutes. I go up and down the blue slide so many times I lose count, I climb into the tree house, I enter the toy kitchen, I play with the toy oven, the toy cups and plates. If Didi catches me playing, I can always tell her I am trying to see what new toys have come to the playpen so that I can help Krish play with them but Didi doesn’t come out, she is busy with dinner with Dada Babu. They take a long time, about an hour, and by the time they are done and step out of the restaurant pushing Krish’s stroller, I am back on the bench.’
~
‘Did they give you some food at the restaurant?’asks Ma.
‘They packed it, Didi said she has kept it in the fridge, she will give it to me for lunch tomorrow,’ says Pinki. ‘I will bring it home for all of you.’
‘No, no, not at all, never,’ says Baba, ‘you eat it at their house itself, that’s your share, no need to bring it home.’
Ma has heard it all, she begins serving dinner, a drop of sweat rolls down her forehead to the tip of her nose and as she wipes it with her sari, she wonders when has Pinki, not even eleven years old, grown up so much.
WOMAN
The Accident
Sister Agnes Consuelo, the principal, should not be here, she should be in her office. Instead, she stands at my classroom door, looking in, and then, without saying a word, walks in, right up to the blackboard where I stand. Children, please stand up, welcome Sister Agnes, I tell them, and they say, in a chorus of fifty-one distinct voices, good afternoon, Sister Agnes, welcome to Kindergarten Class, and they all stand up, boys and girls tired and drained because it’s 1.15 p.m., barely fifteen minutes away from the end of day.
I tell them to rest their heads on their desks, close their eyes. No talking.
Sister Agnes holds my shoulder; she has never held me like this. She leans into me, she wants to tell me something in confidence, she doesn’t want the children in the class to hear, she is so close I see the charts on the softboard – of the solar system, the sun and the planets, black and blue – reflected in the curve of her glasses.
Some children promptly go back to resting their heads on their desks, eyes closed, mouth shut, just as I have instructed. Others talk, open, close desks, pack, unpack bags, tie shoelaces.
Sister Agnes has her back to them, I raise my finger to my lips to tell them to be quiet.
Sister Agnes says she wants me to go with her to the office. She says she has asked her assistant to come upstairs and supervise the children until the end of the class.
‘Please take your bag,’ she says, ‘you don’t need to return to the classroom.’
The chalk slips between my fingers, I pick it up, I dust the blackboard.
I am about to tell the children that I will be going downstairs and I will see them tomorrow when Sister Agnes says, ‘Let’s go.’
We step out of the classroom, my fingers smeared with chalk dust, my eyes blurred, Sister Agnes holds my arm as if I am learning to walk.
~
I am in her office.
Sister Agnes steps out, leaving me alone, I hear her talking to someone, a man, but I cannot make out what they are saying, she mentions my name, she mentions your father’s name.
She walks in.
‘Your daughter is on her way, we have sent someone to get her. You please sit here for a while, can I get you a glass of water, there has been an accident,’ she says. ‘Your husband.’
MAN
Paris Walk
The water cannons work, the protest is broken, the protesters – forty, fifty of them, men, women and children – begin to disperse. Gone is their rage as, flanked by policemen, they shuffle towards the ramp that exits the highway, defeated, drenched and dripping like crows caught in rain.
‘Now, traffic will begin to move,’ says Driver, smiles as he hears engines all around switch on, indicators blink, rear lights gleam, reflected in water on the cars and on the highway.
He tells Driver to go ahead and wait at the next exit, he wants to check on a little something. He steps out of the car, out of the fierce noon day on the highway in New City into early morning, breakfast time, in Paris.
~
He finds he is on rue du Bac, a sign on the wall says this is the 7th arrondissement, this is where his friend Arsh lives. Number 100. He will drop by, give him a surprise but, first, he wants to go for a walk.
How the hell did you come to Paris, Arsh will ask, why didn’t you tell me in advance, I could have planned something, but now that you are here, I am sorry, I cannot do much, I have to go to work but here is the key to my house, help yourself to whatever is there in the fridge, make yourself comfortable, I will try to come back early and then we go out at night.
He wants to see the Seine, Arsh has told him it’s a short walk from his house.
He looks around, he’s at 15 rue du Bac, right across from him is a café, Le Gévaudan. It’s yet to open, a man is cleaning up inside. Four chairs sit outside under a red awning so wide it covers almost the entire cobbled pavement.
Next door is a restaurant, Artisan Boulanger. This is also shut. There is a wine shop, Nicolas, again closed, he must have come very early, what time is it? Let me walk for a while before the shops open, he thinks.
He is hungry, he hasn’t had anything since his drink last night when Balloon Girl and her mother were asleep.
A woman in a tan coat, which reaches to her knees, throws a cigarette into a drain.
Their eyes meet.
~
Two men walk past, talking to each other, he walks through them, in between. To his right is Galerie Verneuil: a CD, DVD
shop, it sells posters and postcards too, it’s open but it doesn’t draw him in, he keeps walking. Up ahead, there is the office of CB Richard Ellis. It’s a familiar name, he has to interact with their India office at work. He pitches real-estate projects to them which they offer to banks which, in turn, offer these projects to their private clients as high-return investments. Projects in New City, commercial and residential, mainly luxury, off the highway where his car stands now.
It’s cold, he is the only one on the street in just shirt and trousers.
An old woman peers through the glass window of Du Bout Du Monde, he stops to look but cannot make out what kind of a store it is, it looks like a bar with a stage against the wall, some kind of a theatre.
Every second shop on this street is a gallery of some sort.
Montres de Prestige et de Collection, 34 rue du Bac, is he walking in the right direction?
He wants to see the river first before he meets Arsh. He knows from his Google walks that streets in Paris are short. He will walk down a few blocks, if there is no river, he will turn back. An Eric Kayser is open from where he smells bread, freshly baked, and coffee, should he stop and have something to eat before the walk to the river? He decides against it, crosses rue de Verneuil, heads east towards the sun climbing the sky in front, between the grand buildings on either side, with their arches and gabled windows, walks down the narrow road squeezed in between, perpetually in shadow.
One shop has a sign in English: ‘Farrow & Ball, Manufacturers of Traditional Paper and Paint’. He imagines a workshop in the basement packed with rolls of wood pulp, vats of boiling water, drums of glue, dyes of different colours extracted from flowers.
Two trash bags, tied at the mouth, are propped at the entrance.
~
The wind is stronger, colder, it must be from the river, he crosses rue de l’Université, keeps walking down rue du Bac, that’s what Arsh has told him, the river is a short walk from my house straight down and there it is, he can see the narrow road open up into a sprawling intersection. Past rue de Lille, rue du Bac ends and merges into Pont Royal from where he can see the Seine.
She Will Build Him a City Page 12
